THE FLUTE-PLAYER SHOWS HOW LITTLE MUSIC HATH POWER TO SOOTHE THE
SAVAGE BREAST--OF A MUSICIAN.

Fairthorn found himself on the very spot in which, more than five years
ago, Lionel, stung by Fairthorn's own incontinent prickles, had been
discovered by Darrell. There he threw himself on the ground, as the boy
had done; there, like the boy, he brooded moodily, bitterly--sore with
the world and himself. To that letter, written on the day that Darrell
had so shocked him, and on which letter he had counted as a last forlorn
--hope, no answer had been given. In an hour or so, Lionel would arrive;
those hateful nuptials, dooming Fawley as the nuptials of Paris and Helen
had doomed Troy, would be finally arranged. In another week the work of
demolition would commence. He never meant to leave Darrell to
superintend that work. No; grumble and refuse as he might till the last
moment, he knew well enough that, when it came to the point, he, Richard
Fairthorn, must endure any torture that could save Guy Darrell from a
pang. A voice comes singing low through the grove--the patter of feet on
the crisp leaves. He looks up; Sir Isaac is scrutinising him gravely
--behind Sir Isaac, Darrell's own doe, led patiently by Sophy, yes,
lending its faithless neck to that female criminal's destroying hand.
He could not bear that sight, which added insult to injury. He scrambled
up--darted a kick at Sir Isaac--snatched the doe from the girl's hand,
and looked her in the face (her--not Sophy, but the doe) with a reproach
that, if the brute had not been lost to all sense of shame, would have
cut her to the heart; then, turning to Sophy, he said: "No, Miss! I
reared this creature--fed it with my own hands, Miss. I gave it up to
Guy Darrell, Miss; and you shan't steal this from him, whatever else you
may do, Miss."

SOPHY.--"Indeed, Mr. Fairthorn, it was for Mr. Darrell's sake that I